


Elevator

by windfallswest



Series: Dirty Dancing [6]
Category: The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M, Kid Fic, POV Female Character, POV First Person, Trapped In Elevator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 03:10:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2051343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windfallswest/pseuds/windfallswest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry and Marcone, stuck in an elevator.</p><p>Prologue to Dirty Dancing. Maggie is two and a half.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Elevator

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the long hiatus. I thought I'd do a piece of short fluff for May before getting into the heavy stuff, and then I bogged down in the fluff. Oops. So I may finish that someday, but for now here's the prologue to the next long story.

**Zero Hour**  
The elevator shuddered and...stopped.

"Oh, fuck."

John Marcone swept a cool look through the safety-glass panels and over the nearest segment of the Chicago skyline. "I didn't take you for an exhibitionist, Harry."

Marcone's expression was the only thing that _was_ cool. Chicago in the summer is as wildly temperamental as the rest of the year, with an added bonus of stifling humidity and chance of thunderstorms. It was still early, but I could already feel the mercury creeping up.

I snorted. "Don't _even_. You won't even show your elbows in public."

"Oh, given the right circumstances, I could be quite happily persuaded."

I looked away from the burning intensity in Marcone's gaze.

This was so fucking stupid. It was the end of a day so long it was already well into tomorrow, and my only consolation in being stuck forty-odd floors up in a tiny, transparent box with Gentleman John Marcone and having the camera-phones of probably the entire next-door office building trained on us was that at least I hadn't had to climb up the sixty flights of stairs to get here in the first place.

I'd come through Faerie.

It fucking figured that Marcone's official office would correspond to someplace nasty in the Nevernever. I had gotten a sneak peek at some of Marcone's anti-wizard defences (it's nice to be appreciated) before he figured out that spoiling his morning was only an accidental by-product of my very long day. Okay, and I'd realised he was reacting out of reflex and not active hostility either. After which Marcone had dialled up an ambulance and conscientiously offered to escort me out himself, probably to keep Hendricks from trying to kill me again. He was pretty attached to Hendricks. I'd twisted my ankle a little in the course of my Very Long Day, or I wouldn't have let him talk me into risking the elevator.

For very good reasons.

So I was stuck in here with Marcone for who knew how long. I'd have been inclined to try opening a portal through to the Nevernever, except that I knew what was on the other side and once was enough for even a much shorter day than this had been, thank you very much. It hadn't been the most harrowing experience of my life, but I'd more than earned my money on this one. Maybe I should consider adding on a surcharge for cases where something tried to eat me.

I looked outside. It was a beautiful summer day; the cloudless sky stretched out to meet the dull, dark blue waters of the lake at the horizon. The irregularly shaped skyscrapers of downtown Chicago blocked our view on the other two sides. The closest was close enough I could see faces peering at us out of office windows. Now that was an unsettling thought. I lurched to my feet and crouched painfully.

"Off the wall, Johnny," I ordered, digging some chalk out of my duster pocket.

"What are you doing?" Marcone asked, watching my gimpy movements intently.

My arc was blocked by his polished patent-leather shoes. I glared up at him.

"I don't know about you, but I'd rather not spend the rest of the day with a bullet in my skull. Of course, I can leave you out of it if you'd rather keep propping up the wall."

"My apologies," Marcone murmured, and moved his feet.

I grunted and continued, scribing two circles and dropping a few stones. It was a much simplified variant of a Greater Circle I'd encountered several years back. Marcone remained politely silent until I'd closed it and let myself thump down to sit on my butt, Indian-style. Marcone could loom all all he liked: my ankle hurt. Plus, I got to be taller the rest of the time.

After a minute, Marcone risked bagging the knees of his thousand-dollar suit trousers to sit on the floor facing me. It was...oddly intimate, although we'd been closer at different times, even touched, in the heat of a fight. I'd looked into his soul, and he into mine. He'd eased my daughter from my contorting body. Speaking of long days.

It wasn't that formality was a big factor in our interactions, either. I tried to maintain a certain distance, while conversely getting up in his face. But it was true that we were hardly ever this close without a heavy dose of adrenaline and enemy fire for a distraction.

Even though the elevator was big, we were sitting almost knee to knee—my having a couple inches on Marcone is a long way from saying he's short. Even folded up, our legs took up a lot of space.

Inside the circle, the air felt simultaneously quieter and more charged. The constant pressure of random energies that bombard my magical senses, especially in the middle of something as big and active as a city, fell away. The only disruptive aura left was my own; I was still keyed up and pumping out a fog of tension. The light in the ceiling above us flickered and died. My stomach growled.

"So," I said. "Got any gum?"

 

 **Eight minutes in**  
"You know, maybe this is a good thing. I've been meaning to talk to you about your stalkerish and unwelcome intrusions into my life," I said.

"Might I remind you that you are the one who has disrupted my day?" Marcone observed almost primly. He was still annoyingly put-together and morning-neat, dark hair combed and jaw clean of stubble. I, in contrast, was rumpled, abraded, and—not to put too fine a point on it—didn't smell very good. Kind of brimstone-y.

"No," I said bluntly. I had to restrain the urge to get up and pace, and drummed my fingers instead. "I want to know why you keep doing it."

Marcone lifted his eyebrows. "Doing what, Harry?"

"Don't call me Har—don't try to change the subject! I want to know why you keep sending me things, and then I want you to stop. And stop showing up every time I turn a corner; don't you have a city to run or something?"

There was a downright weird expression on Marcone's face. "Is it so hard for you to believe that I might simply want to help you?"

"Yes," I said. It was Marcone; of course there was a string attached. He was almost as bad as the fucking faeries.

Marcone heaved a sigh with those wide shoulders of his. "I had hoped we'd gotten past this."

I smiled my _bite me_ smile at him. "Nope, this is pretty much where we're stuck."

 

 **Twenty minutes in**  
"I don't suppose you have a deck of cards in one of those pockets," Marcone said, breaking the long silence.

"Nope." I started fishing around anyway. "You ever play road games?"

"Road games?"

"Yeah, you know, games you play in the car, to keep everybody's head from exploding on a long drive." I used to play them with my dad. We travelled a lot. "Licence Plate, Yellow Car, Punch Bug—"

Marcone's expression went so dry it made me thirsty. Asshole.

"—Fortunately-Unfortunately," another speaking look, "Twenty Questions, the Alphabet Game. That sort of thing."

No cards, but I found a Jacob's Ladder, one from a box of my mom's old toys Eb had passed on to me when Maggie was born. The ribbons were a little faded, but the oiled cherry wood squares still flipped down them easily.

"Perhaps a few hours of quiet meditation," Marcone suggested.

 

 **Twenty-two minutes in**  
"Must you do that?"

"I'm bored." I tipped another block into cascade: _clickclackclickclackclickclackclack_.

The look Marcone gave me was long-suffering, which was totally unfair. _He_ was the one who kept following _me_ around like a well-armed puppy dog. Speaking of Cujo. I wondered if anyone was remembering to walk him.

"Remind me, who is the two-year-old?"

"Hey, I am perfectly capable of entertaining myself."

"I'd noticed."

I met his verdigris eyes and, very deliberately, tipped over another block. _Clickclackclickclackclickclackclickclackclick._

 

 **Twenty-five minutes in**  
"Unfortunately, that rock you just tripped over was a baby hippo. His mother isn't happy."

"Fortunately, I have on my person several fragmentation grenades," Marcone countered after a moment's consideration. Because that was the logical solution to an enraged hippopotamus. I should have known this game would be a short-cut to Disturbingville.

"Stars and sky. Don't you think that's a little harsh?"

Marcones remained unperturbed. "An enraged hippopotamus is an incredibly dangerous creature; I didn't feel inclined to take further unnecessary risks."

"You could have just said 'fortunately, they were pygmy hippos', or it was standing on a colony of driver ants, or you were safe because you were riding an elephant or something," I pointed out. The poor hippos.

"Yes, the siafu would be much more humane," Marcone murmured. I glared at him, but making an argument for the beauty of nature as demonstrated by flesh-devouring ants was pushing it, even for the noble cause of tweaking Marcone. "My turn, I believe. Unfortunately, we are trapped in a small glass box suspended four hundred feet in the air."

This was a blatant—and redundant—attempt to trick me into using magic to get us out of the elevator. I'd briefly considered blasting through the side of the elevator and into the building—it was Marcone's building, after all, and I wasn't that tapped out. But believe it or not, I try to reserve property destruction for times of immanent peril. Besides, he'd just have to extort the money for repairs out of the vice rackets.

"Fortunately, there is no giant scorpion on top of it trying to break in and kill us." Then again, maybe Marcone wasn't the only one drawing on disturbing life experiences.

 

 **Thirty minutes in**  
"I spy with my little eye something beige."

I cranked my head slowly around to glare at Marcone. "You're a dick." I couldn't muster much vinegar to pour into the insult: it was too hot to get hot, as it were. Marcone being a passive-aggressive bitch was not sufficiently newsworthy.

"This is completely ridiculous," Marcone complained.

Music to my ears. "Okay, I got it. That building," I pointed to my right, "forty-first floor, fifth window from the right. The filing cabinets."

"No. It's unfortunate your talents interfere with modern firearms; you'd make a fair sniper."

The things Marcone could say with a straight face would never cease to unnerve me. I rolled my eyes.

"Thank goodness I've found an alternate profession that makes use of my talents, even if it is less murder-based." I scratched my sweating scalp. "On the corner, moustache-guy's pants?"

 

 **An hour in**  
"Dammit, how long can it take to fix an elevator? Or call the Fire Department?" I complained. The temperature was rising with the sun. I caved and struggled out of my duster under Marcone's weighty gaze. It was dim and close in here, with the building we were hanging off of blocking the sun and all the others crowding out the ambient light. Sweat was trickling down my back and between my boobs. I started to rub at them with my good hand, then caught Marcone following the, uh, activity with his sharp eyes. Defiantly, I finished scratching my tit and glowered back, daring him to comment.

"We're in a drought. I imagine the Fire Department is putting out fires," he said instead.

I scowled. "And you don't have it fixed so your office building cuts to the front of the line?"

"Miss Dresden, are you asking me to influence the operation of a municipal utility for your personal convenience?" Marcone's tone was polite and mild. Tetchy. Marcone ready to pounce.

"No," I said sullenly. "Just surprised that you aren't doing it for yours."

"I am hardly going to risk Chicago's burning down, again, for the sake of a few hours' inconvenience." Marcone's eyes flicked away from mine and then back again. He shrugged out of his suit jacket, pulled off his tie, and started popping his cuffs, thick fingers moving deftly. "I hope it won't shock you if I expose my elbows."

 

 **One and a half hours in**  
I didn't remember my contingency chocolate until after it was already melted. I poked the ghetto fondue in its wrapper, weighting _food_ against _fuck hot no_. Marcone watched me lick my finger; he looked hungry. The scent of dark, bitter chocolate filled the cramped space. It was a definite improvement over unwashed wizard, but the way it combined with Marcone's cologne was just unfair.

I considered an alternative. I'd have to be more delicate than I usually managed, but hey, I was already inside a circle: might as well take advantage. I took my time shaping the spell, letting the taste and scent of the chocolate sooth my abused nerves.

"Fuego," I whispered, releasing my will carefully. Small, delicate, subtle. Almost as quiet as the diaper-folding charm. The messy, dark brown sludge solidified again, and a patch of air above our heads exploded into a gout of flame. A small one! Anyway, hot air rises, and it actually created a bit of a draft for about thirty seconds. Go physics.

Marcone stared outright, his lips parted. "Now, why didn't you do that an hour ago?"

 _To the entire elevator?_ I filled in, unable—well, okay, having no motivation—to stop my smirk at this admission of discomfort.

"Yeah, sure," I said. "I could turn this into a regular icebox. But the heat has to go somewhere. I guess if you don't _mind_ burning through the cable, or the brakes, or the roof, or melting whatever's in the next shaft over, or warping the support beams..." Not to mention I was damned lucky I hadn't frozen my hand, too. I wasn't at all sure I could have done the entire elevator and not turned the two of us into ice sculptures.

"I take your point."

I was having to work not to stare at Marcone. I didn't think I'd ever seen him sweat, before. Not just sitting around. For years, I'd been carrying that implacable-tiger association around in my head, ever since we soulgazed. But right now he was just a guy sweating through his silk shirt. He'd shrugged out of a shoulder holster along with his jacket and undone the first couple buttons under his collar.

When Marcone spoke, his voice was low and resonant, with just the hint of a growl in it no matter what he was saying. I caught myself more than once watching his throat work instead of listening to what he was saying, the beads of sweat trickling down to pool in the hollow between his collarbones, a little bit of chest-hair peeking out. Neither of us had shifted position for over an hour.

He had to have noticed my attention wandering: Marcone always made a point of looking me in the eye, and I usually had at least as much to prove. I'd never had anything close to this much eye contact with anyone before in my life. Our interactions basically comprised the world's longest and most monster-ridden cumulative staring contest.

"How is Maggie?"

I jerked my eyes up. My own heat-flushed skin would probably camouflage the blush. Sleep, that was it. I needed sleep. Obviously, I was over-tired if I was perving on John Marcone's carotid, and not in the must-rip-it-out way. I was not a vampire; Marcone's neck-cleavage held no interest for me. Dammit.

"None of your business," I snapped automatically.

Marcone looked away fast, but I caught a glimpse of something I didn't think I was supposed to see.

Hurt.

Oh. I felt like a heel. The guy was just making conversation. Wasn't he? Anyway, everyone knew Marcone didn't hurt kids. He wasn't...wasn't...

I sighed. "Here," I said, breaking off a chunk of cold, solid chocolate. Peace offering. "Like Eb would say, it's good for what ails you."

"Thank you," Marcone said after a thinking moment, almost as cold as the chocolate.

"She's, uh, started walking Mouse," I told my own piece. "Maggie. I mean, really he's walking her; but I don't have enough hands to hold onto everyone at once, and Mouse takes the leash laws very seriously. I handed it to her to hold last week while I put my duster on and she says, 'Okay, Mommy. I walk him.'" I shook my head, popping the chunk I'd broken off into my mouth. "He keeps her from getting into trouble. And when she gets tired, she can ride him like a pony." When I'd threatened to harness him to a little red wagon he'd glared at me for a week, though.

"Doesn't Mister Raith assist you?"

I frowned, reminded that I was worried about Thomas. "He hasn't been around much lately."

I finished licking my fingers and looked up. Marcone's eyes were smiling for the first time all morning. I smiled back automatically. _Oh, that's better._

Marcone's smile spread down to his mouth, which was much more used to the activity. My heart-rate skyrocketed.

_Wait. Wait. What the fuck is that?_

 

 **Two hours and ten minutes in**  
Marcone had to think I was bipolar by now. So, I told myself, it was a good thing I didn't give a crap what Marcone thought of me. It must have been the heat. And the hunger. I was sweating so much I didn't even feel like peeing, so probably dehydration, too.

And confused. I was definitely confused. Probably because of the heat and the low blood-sugar and the dehydration.

I'd never seriously considered Marcone as a threat to Maggie. For one thing, Marcone had a thing for kids—and not a creepy thing, more like an I-will-smite-you-if-you-touch-him thing. I remembered how he'd gotten year before last when we'd raided Mavra's scourge and he found out the hostages she'd been using for bait were kids. No, okay, that _had_ been creepy: if he'd said he was going to tear Mavra apart with his teeth, I'd have believed him. Hell, I'd have helped him.

But the assumption I'd been working under was that Marcone wanted to use Maggie to win me over. Which conveniently explained all the stuff he'd been sending me ever since he found out I was pregnant in the first place. And his popping up all the time was the same, a continuation of the conquer-Harry-Dresden campaign, trying to get me used to him, wear me down, whatever. That he got caught up in a certain number of my knottier cases only made sense, since anything attacking me was de facto attacking whomever was standing next to me, and Marcone is thoroughly conditioned to shoot back. Plus, you know, I'd called him in a couple times. When I had a favour to collect, and I needed some muscle. Tit for tat. Like he said, he didn't want the city on fire any more than I did.

Granted, it had been years since he so much as flashed me an actual contract, but he still made the offers. He'd probably have a heart attack if I actually _signed_ one, which was sometimes almost tempting logic. The way he just _smiled_ when I shot him down, like he'd already won and I didn't know it yet, drove me crazy.

I had my eyes closed and my head propped up on my crossed arms as they rested on my knees, going through a mental exercise I'd pulled from one of many failed purification rituals and not from Lasciel himself, in an attempt to convince my abused body it didn't mind sitting in the same position for hours on end, roasting, and that it wasn't going stiff and losing sensation in its lower extremities. Don't get me wrong—I'd gotten used to meditation when I was still a kid. But between the bruises, the ankle, and the heat—no, I was not bothered at all by the heat, or thinking about my left hand—it wasn't easy.

Plus, I could feel Marcone watching me, a palpable presence even with my eyes shut. No way could I Zen out with Marcone sitting over there being so...so...Marcone.

I brought my head up. "Why do you keep sending me stuff when you know I'm going to send it all back?" Almost all of it; I thought of Bob's bonsai down in the lab.

Marcone heaved a deep sigh. Something seemed to drain out of him along with the carbon dioxide, some measure of habitual careful blankness. He looked—tired. "To keep you from identifying the real aid I'm providing."

" _What_?" I exclaimed, jerking backwards and almost out of the circle. "What _aid_? What are you talking about?"

"The sale of your apartment building, for one."

I would have shot to my feet, if I could have made my legs work. I settled for leaning forward on my good hand and into his personal space. I gestured with my gloved left. "You _bought_ my building? My _home_. I cannot believe you just— _my home_ , Marcone. In what maladjusted delusion did you ever think that was a smart thing to do? I know! I haven't screwed over Harry Dresden lately; she needs more crap to deal with in her life. What, did you send Hendricks around to intimidate Missus S, too?"

"Don't be ridiculous." Marcone sounded, if anything, more tired. "You react in advance of the facts."

"The facts," I hissed, wanting nothing but to crack that infuriating reserve, scouring his face for the smallest tic of weakness, the least hint that he understood how badly he'd just screwed up, "are that the gloves are coming off. I am done dicking around with you Marcone; you have just gone too far."

Marcone declined to tic, which was just as well because I was set to tear him limb from limb at the slightest provocation. "I assure you, you are overreacting."

"Excuse me for being upset to discover all this time I've been helping fund your criminal empire!" I snarled.

"Really, Miss Dresden. By my calculations, once you deduct the overhead, your rent would hardly provide for a good steak dinner." I sputtered indignantly. "In any case, I do not own the building in question; former Detective Washington does, and he is the one to whom the money goes. My involvement was limited to ensuring that certain individuals were made aware of the appropriate opportunities. I assure you, there was no coercion of any sort. Both Lieutenant Washington and Missus Spunkelcrief would be quite surprised to learn I had any hand in the situation at all, in fact."

"And I suppose it's just a coincidence that Mister Baxingdale is an EMT."

"I will admit, that was more delicate to arrange without showing my hand."

I stared Marcone in the eyes, hard. Our faces were bare inches apart, but I couldn't read anything there except fatigue. I didn't think he was lying. He was holding something back, though.

"Then why the fuck did you knock down my office building, if you're my guardian fucking angel?"

"I discovered that the Red Court had mined your office," Marcone replied easily.

I froze with my jaw hanging open on a scathing retort.

"They acquired the building some four years ago," Marcone continued while I gaped at him like a bass.

"They said they found asbestos!"

Marcone shrugged. "They may well have; the order was not difficult to arrange."

Slowly, my brain began to grind into motion again. "You could have just blown me up!" It came out as an accusation.

For the first time, I caught a hint of wariness in Marcone's eyes. "A needlessly messy eventuality."

"That's an—" _incredibly stupid decision_. I bit my tongue, mental cogs gone from zero to sixty and stripping plenty of teeth along the way. If true, it was about as smart as punching yourself in the face, from a practical standpoint. Which was the only place Marcone ever stood. The opportunity to blow me away as easily as the Red Court—stars and stones—could have, were I ever to seriously threaten him. Hell, as soon as he could arrange it.

I leaned forward again, examining Marcone's poker face. He was risking a lot, telling me all this. He didn't mind my seeing he was tired, but he was hiding something else. Emotion. What emotion would Marcone bother hiding from me? Not his anger. Not his amusement or his gloating or his irrational acquisitiveness. What emotion, that could inspire him to make such frankly foolish choices—

I lurched. For one mad second, I thought that we were falling, impossibly, into a second soulgaze. My world tilted on its axis.

Marcone's face was still bland behind the weary mask, but I knew. I knew with the same breathtaking conviction I feel when a big, complicated case breaks and the scattered facts resolve into the terrifying panorama of a gargantuan magical power-play. Like those lenses they make you look through at the eye doctor's, from blurry to clear, _flip_ , like that. It was right in front of me, in Marcone's cursed perpetual blankness. In his consistent, contrary _presence_.

With a feeling like vertigo, I understood the reason Marcone had always needed so badly to own me was that, on some level, I already owned him. Hell's stars and bell stones.

And here he sat, tremendously vulnerable, with only the screen of my thick-wittedness between himself and emotional nakedness. Well, to be fair, it had worked for better than two and a half years. For who knew how long. Stars and stones.

Marcone's breath was coming faster. So, I realised, was mine. My mouth was still stuck halfway open, for once lagging behind my brain.

Well, we all knew that wasn't going to last.

I crossed the last hand's breadth of space and kissed Marcone. His stillness snapped like the last strand of a fraying rope, and I had his hands on me. He set one at the curve of my waist and cupped my face in the other, our sweat smoothing the calluses on his palm.

Almost all my weight was on my arm; I was getting dangerously close to falling into Marcone's lap. Actually, that was starting to sound like a _fantastic_ idea. If only it weren't so hot. I won't say I felt like I was burning because I have had that bit of poetic hyperbole painfully debunked, but my blood all went rushing south and my core temperature followed my heart rate skyward. Even just his mouth and two hands transmitted an uncomfortable amount of sticky heat.

I pulled back, still breathing heavily. Marcone's eyes stayed closed for a long moment. The expression on his face was...I don't know how to describe it. It looked like peace, and like pain; like if I touched him again he might shatter.

It was of course at that moment that we were interrupted by an unholy metallic shrieking and the elevator started to shake. I scrambled for my blasting rod, set aside with my duster; Marcone went for his gun. I shook out my shiny new shield bracelet, purely out of reflex. My medium circle of summoning ought to be protection enough. Nothing happened.

Nothing bad, anyway. The tortured grinding noises kept coming from the top of the door—we must have been stuck between floors. After a few exceedingly unpleasant minutes they stopped briefly, only to return with a whirring counterpoint. The elevator doors started edging open.

"Sir?" Hendricks' voice came drifting through the crack. Marcone, up on one knee now, thumbed the safety back on his gun and bent to retrieve holster and jacket.

I got, um, distracted and didn't check back in until the translucent material clinging to his lower back was covered up. Fortunately, I managed to get myself back together by the time Marcone turned around and offered me a hand up. Look, I don't mind knowing that chivalry isn't completely dead. Anyone who wants to call me a bad feminist can come by and do it to my face, and I'll be glad to blow her across the room with the power of my mind.

I let Marcone help me up. His hand maybe lingered a little on mine, but that wasn't really anything new. Five minutes ago, I would have shrugged it off as more power-games. His face was composed again, eyes open and alert. I met them only for a second; my panic was catching up to me.

"We're here, Mister Hendricks. Do please keep working on the door," Marcone replied.

"Keep the wizard away from it," Hendricks grunted. By his tone, he'd have been okay if Marcone had had to push me out through one of the safety-glass panels to keep me from frying whatever it was they were using to jack the doors open.

"We're inside a circle," Marcone assured him drily. "It's fine."

I eyed my duster with disfavour; it had to be at least eighty degrees. Maybe I should think about enspelling a bullet-proof parasol.

"I'll undertake not to have anyone shoot you until it cools down a little." I squinted down at Marcone; he smiled urbanely. "Will you still be needing that ambulance?"

I shifted my weight onto the ankle that had been complaining. It twinged a little, but didn't threaten to go out on me. "Nah. Just a cab."

The noise started up again on the door. "I'd be happy to have someone drop you wherever you left your...vehicle."

I bared my teeth, back on familiar ground. "Thanks but no thanks. Unless you haven't trained your pet gorilla to operate a phone yet."

I watched the doors minutely. Once they had been pried open about ten inches, I broke the circles and brushed past Marcone to haul myself through. I all but fell on the guys jacking them open—what the hell kind of doors did Marcone put on his elevators, anyway? Should I have been grateful the tear gas canisters in the vents hadn't taken exception to my presence, too? Or the automated defence lasers? Nanobots?

"I am never getting on an elevator again as long as I live," I swore, hobbling towards the stairs with all the alacrity of a Jehovah's Witness late for Judgement Day.

Either Hendricks could actually use a phone or someone else in the building took pity on him, because by the time I got to the bottom of the fortieth or so flight of stairs, Marcone hovering solicitously at my elbow the whole while, there was a cab waiting. I was less than happy, when we got to the Ukrainian Village, to discover Marcone had paid him in advance. Come to think of it, how did I know half the cabbies in Chicago weren't on Marcone's payroll? They'd be easy to buy: he could just have the cops he owned fix their traffic tickets.  
__ __ __

The next day, I dropped in on Murphy to let her know I'd taken care of the Vodjanoj and also apologise for getting sort-of-kidnapped into the Nevernever before I'd had a chance to call her for backup. In retrospect, a little backup might not have hurt, but I'd taken care of business fine on my own, without endangering anyone in SI.

To my surprise, Murphy greeted me with amusement instead of threats of bodily harm. I had spent the last twenty-four hours suppressing a nervous breakdown, so I met her unanticipated good cheer with wariness.

"I hear you were stuck in an elevator all day with John Marcone," Murphy said. Aaaand that explained everything.

"Why does everyone take pleasure in my pain?"

"Just think of it as giving joy to others. He still alive?"

"Yeah."

Murphy shook her head. "It's too bad. If you'd killed him, we were going to give you lifetime parking immunity."

I raised my eyebrows. "Never has murder been so tempting. But isn't hiring freelancers playing dirty pool, too?"

Murphy rolled her eyes and promised to cut me a check, although since I was being such a stickler she wouldn't dream of offending my sensibilities by paying for the two and a half hours I'd been stuck in the elevator with Marcone. We talked a little longer, then I reclaimed Maggie from her doting aunts and uncles in the SI bullpen. Answering her ever-increasing barrage of questions (we'd gone through this phase not too long ago with Harry Carpenter, but Maggie was already showing signs of being even worse), at least distracted me from thinking about Marcone's mouth.

It was too hot to get that worked up, anyway.  
__________


End file.
